Attendre avec Intérêt les Jours Dans le Passé
by No Rhythm At All
Summary: What if someone was after the thief instead of vice versa? (A twisted AU story about Remy's past and how he came to be)


Disclaimer: Class, what does the prefix '_dis' _mean? 

A little kid stands up "It means '_not'_."

Good. Now what does the suffix '_er' _mean?

Another youngster jumps out of his seat "It is, '_the one who_.'"

Correct! So if we put that together, altogether children!

**_THE ONE WHO DOES NOT CLAIM!_**

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Ahem. My over-active imagination gets the best of me sometimes. That's why I wrote this fic, right? To _tame_ it. (My over-active imagination, I mean.) 

_Down boy, down!_

AN: Hey! What's going on? Let's see…this is my first (rather pathetic) attempt at fan fiction…actually, it's not. But it is the first one that I posted. I have read _a whole lot_ of fan fiction…uhm…crickets chirp… I suppose I should write something meaningful here, but I am a meaningless person…a person who doesn't know the word 'meaning'; a person who has no meaning. Wait…people are actually reading this? I'm surprised. Anyways, I usually skip this part in most fics. Author's notes are mostly just the babbling of the author. (No one really wants to hear that, do they?) ;) So onward Prancer! To the fic! A weird looking reindeer pops out of nowhere and takes you (the reader) into _this…_ Attendre avec Intérêt les Jours Dans le Passé Written By: No Rhythm At All

The September of 1983… 

"L'ok, et cinq multipled par douze égales...?" (Okay, and 5 multiplied by 12 equals…?) The woman in her mid-thirties trailed off, searching for one of her students' hands for her to call on. But none of them were raised. Her eyes jumped from one anxious body to another. She tapped on the blackboard, where she wrote the problem. 

It was bright and warm day at the local New Orleans orphanage as young, 11-year-old Remy stared out the nearest window, which was surprisingly brand new. He rested his chin on the palm of his hand as he thought about the window.

_Dey changed it fo' de_ _sixième _(sixth)_ time dis month. _The eleven year old wore his trademark smirk at the memory. _Dey had been mean t' mon ami, _(my friend)_ Mark. Sayin' he throw like a femme. _

_"Shut up! I don' throw like a stupid femme!" Mark had shouted. He was fâché _(angry). _Who could blame him, neh? If Tom told me dat, I would be very fâché, too. _

_Anyway, Tom an' his amis got a good laugh when Mark said dat. "Oooh! We made lil' Marky mad, eh? Poor bébé." Tom taunted in a voice y' would use fo' a lil' kid. Tom is de usual bully y' would see at y' school. Very fat, t' de point dat, his blubber makes him extremely slow. Which he is._

_Remy (das moi!) came t' de rescue. "Jus' leave Mark 'lone, _Thomas." _Remy (moi again!) tisked, droppin' his (wonderful, brown, an' cool) baseball glove on de field, an' walked up from his position on shortstop._

_"Hear dat, mes amis? I t'ink I hear lil' Sunglasses stan' up fo' his wussy ami, eh?" Tom's amis giggled like lil' school femmes…well, maybe I be exaggeratin' but I would pay t' see 'em laugh like dat._

_L'ok, _(okay) _Remy decided t' ignore de bâtards _(bastards). _Remy (Dere I go again!) got one o' baseballs from de groun', an' threw it. Good t'ing Tom was very fast in his reflexes, neh? But too bad his brain didn't get any o' dose fast t'ings. Anyhow, he ducked, an' de ball said, 'Bonjour!' t' de window. Ev'rybody stood still fo' a second, den dey all turned t' Tom, since he had a ball in his hands. (Awww. Poor him.) He was s'posed t' pitch it at Mark, but den dat whole name-callin' started. Den M'sieur Brown, head o' de orphanage, or Michael t' de other teachers, appeared outta thin air. He glared at Tom.      _

_"Le sixième time dis week, M'sieu Thomas Goller."_

_"Je suis désolé, M'sieu Brown." Tom looked down, an' dug the toe o' his shoe, int' de gravel._

_Puits, _(well)_ 'M'sieu Goller' an' his amis got dragged (literally) by de ears to M'sieu Brown's office. When he asked Remy 'bout it, Remy told him, _

_"I don' know, because I was at de garçons bathroom."_

_An' guess what?_

_M'sieu Brown believed Remy._

"Remy Knight!" the Math teacher up front yelled, interrupting Remy's long train of thought. She had been trying to get his attention for a long time now.

Remy's head snapped to her. "Oui, madame?" 

"C'n y' answer de problem, sil vous plait?" She gestured to the board behind her. She squinted at Remy, as if trying to decipher if he knew what she was talking about.

Remy was about to come back with, _'Non, but I'm sure y' c'n.' _He didn't say it though. Madame Laurel was a strict teacher, who didn't take any sass from students, and Remy knew this. He knew this very well. 

"Soixante." He answered, confident that he got it correct.

Madame Laurel's face broke out into a barely noticeable smile. "Bon." She nodded, and turned back. Then she continued on with the multiplication table of 12. "Comment environ sept se sont-ils multipliés par douze, n'importe qui?" (How about seven multiplied by twelve, anyone?) 

Her firm voice seemed to go in Remy's ear and out the other. He was just glad that he had survived the wrath of their old and horrible teacher. He breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down. Across the room, a small movement caught his eye. It was Mark giving him two thumbs up, which Remy returned, smirking arrogantly. He didn't need to say anything because that smirk alone was saying, 'Of-course-I-got-it-this-is-Remy-we-are-talking-about-here.' 

Soon enough, the bell rang, signaling the end of Math class. Frowning, Madame Laurel announced to the class that there would be a pop quiz next meeting. But, of course, the class didn't hear her, for the reason that they were all scrambling out and into the noisy hallway, excited to get to the cafeteria and start to eat lunch. Remy and Mark were included in this crowd.

"Nice one, homme." Mark slapped Remy a high five. 

Remy just grinned in response when, at the same time he was being pushed and shoved by the mass of hungry people. 

As soon as the two best friends had gotten their food, they got to their usual spot at the furthest left corner of the room. They found that Tom and his whole gang had been waiting for them. Remy and Mark looked at each and chuckled. 

"We got int' a lot o' trouble because o' y'. Y' sunglasses wearin' imbecile (fool)." Andrew Punts, dubbed 'The Right Hand' of Tom, spoke up from beside his 'Leader'. Andrew was a tall and lanky boy. He looked like a wimp, and that he was.

Remy rolled his hidden red on black eyes. "Look, if das de best y' c'n come up wit' jus' give up, homme." He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging the other boys. "We wouldn' want t' take up y' 'Precious Time', neh?" He added, that last statement laced with sarcasm.

Tom clearly had had enough of Remy's foolishness and threw a solid punch at Remy's face. The youngster that he was aiming for dodged it, but the quick motion made his dark tinted glasses fall. The rage that Andrew, Tom, Weasel, and Fox rapidly turned into shock. Mark gasped with the rest of them. The people and time suddenly paused.

Remy clutched his throbbing head, closing his exposed eyes. The fluorescent lights were too much for him. "Verres! Mon verres!" (Glasses! My glasses!) He groped the floor like a helpless blind man.

"Y' freak!" was the last thing Remy heard before he fell unconscious.

  


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(AN: I have an ego…My Ego's favorite letter is R. If you double that, it would be R and R, or RR. My Ego also likes reviews because that's where it gets it's food from. 

In short: **Review and make my Ego happy…please?**

Pathetic, I know. Hey, what can you except from a pathetic person? 

BTW, if this chapter is not clear, I'm sorry, but it will be crystal soon…._I hope. _Heh. And the title means, "Looking Forward To The Days in the Past" I have an irony thing going on. grins Yep…that title might change…)     
  


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